


the white coats enter her room

by umadoshi (Ysabet)



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant
Genre: Adopted Sibling Incest, Codependency, F/M, Medical Experimentation, Phobias, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabet/pseuds/umadoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time there was a little girl whose eyes hurt in the light, and a little boy who loved her. The doctors who studied the girl loved her because she never cried. The boy hated them because they made her want to. And the years passed.</p><p>These are the things that shape our lives.</p><p>[Beware of spoilers!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the white coats enter her room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nerissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerissa/gifts).



> This treat starts before the trilogy and ends after it, so it's packed to the brim with spoilers.
> 
> Post-reveal note: beta work by wildpear.

One of the first things I ever learned about doctors was that George was important to them. When we were five and she got the retinal KA diagnosis, it probably took about a week before researchers started asking our parents about her. I don't have many clear memories from back then--I'm pretty sure my "memories" of her pre-diagnosis, when she wasn't living in sunglasses, are reconstructions from family footage.

I also probably don't remember the conversation where Mom and Dad sat us on the couch, side by side, and talked to us earnestly about social responsibility and how this crappy new part of George's life was also an opportunity to help people. They recorded and broadcast it, of course, and from that footage I know that we were both in jeans and t-shirts and that George's riot of little-girl curls was clipped back as tidily as possible, because Mom thought getting George to wear adorable things in her hair would compensate a bit for the fact that she was going to be in sunglasses forever.

I can still visualize all of that, and most importantly, I can see George's serious expression as she nodded, trusting them to know what was best.

She had a ton of tests and experiments done in the next few years, but the first one I know I'm really remembering was her first overnight stay, when we were eight. I think it was during finals or something at UC Berkeley, so Dad was swamped, and there were near-constant outbreaks within driving range that Mom wanted to cover. So I can tell myself now that our parents really did have a lot going on, and given what they were like, it was more surprising that they'd both been along for the drive to the research institute than it was that they had every intention of leaving George there alone.

It doesn't matter how they rationalized it. What matters, then and now, is that all four of us knew that they both wanted to _not_ stay as badly as George wanted to not be left alone in some antiseptic-reeking room with her eyes covered. The latest experimental "treatment" some idiot had wanted to try out on her had taken so little time that even _I_ barely had a chance to get bored; mostly she was just being kept there for observation. It took everything she had not to even mention the possibility of someone staying with her.

A year earlier it would've been different. She would never have begged, but she would've asked, maybe, and then been too proud to push the issue if our loving mommy and daddy explained that _they wished they could stay, darling, but she was a big girl and would be fine_. A year earlier we hadn't figured out yet what our role in their lives was, and we still believed the one lie that George couldn't sniff out from a mile away: they said they loved us, and we believed them. We'd _trusted_ them, and all these months later George was still hurt and angry and trying to understand what we'd done wrong.

In the meantime she wasn't giving them another chance to betray her. She sat there in the hospital bed with protective bandages over her eyes to keep absolutely every hint of light out of them for the first couple of days, and she listened to the Masons saying how busy they were, and she didn't say a word.

I dragged Dad out into the hall and convinced him to let me stay with her, and then I stood in front of the floor supervisor and tried to look responsible and trustworthy while Dad turned on the charm and got the rules bent for us. His little girl didn't want to be alone, he said, and oh dear, he wished he could stay, but maybe his son could stay behind instead? Making her more comfortable would undoubtedly increase the odds of her being willing to come in again.

The supervisor--who seemed like an ancient old lady to me, but was probably thirty, tops--looked unconvinced, so I said that my sister would go out of her mind if she couldn't read and had no one to talk to. Couldn't I _please_ stay and keep her company?

It worked. Mom and Dad left. I didn't.

I read to her, and we played word games--a nurse tsked at me for cheating, because I was taking notes while George couldn't see, and George giggled and backed me up when I said I was just leveling the playing field--and when the overnight staff enforced the lights-out rule I made up stories until she fell asleep. And then I pretended to be asleep too, so that the next time the night staff checked on us, they'd sigh and assume I'd conked out there by accident instead of using the perfectly good cot they'd brought in for me.

Even at eight, George wouldn't have consciously cuddled up with me, not with nurses likely to wander in, but by the time I fell asleep for real, she'd rolled right against me and shoved her face into my ribcage. I made sure she wasn't in danger of jostling the bandages over her eyes, threw an arm across her, and drifted off.

\----------

In the morning I was reminded of the thing I already hated most about doctors--the thing I actively put out of my mind as much as I could, because it made me so mad: they didn't see _George_. Sure, some doctors did, kind of; our pediatrician was decent about it. But all those specialists looked at her and saw her as an ambulatory pair of infected eyes, something to poke and prod and run tests on. Maybe they sucked at grasping that she was a little kid, or maybe they just didn't care. I don't know. I just hated them.

I still do.

They took her to a completely darkened room, and after an argument that George had to join in on because it was just the two of us against what seemed like a hundred grownups, they let me in too. All the medical people had night-vision goggles on so they could examine her eyes and run their next list of tests, but I didn't.

I just sat beside her for hours in the dark, effectively blind, while she clung silently and painfully to my hand because whatever they were doing to her hurt but fell into the range of what they considered "acceptable discomfort". Bizarrely, that was the time when they were most likely to notice that she was a person; someone _always_ had a comment about what a great subject she was, because she was so stoic.

Dad arrived around dinnertime, and he joked with the doctors and rumpled our hair and called George his little trooper. She straightened up a tiny bit, because despite all the fuckery, she still wanted him to be proud of her. The doctors fed him their line about her stoicism, and said they hoped she'd participate in more studies, and Dad said he was sure she would-- _"Won't you, Georgia?"_

And George nodded.

After about fifty repetitions of how important it was to keep her eyes covered for at least another forty-eight hours and Dad assuring them that it wouldn't be a problem, they finally discharged her. What he meant was that he knew I'd stay with her and make sure she had everything she needed while she couldn't see, and I was glad of that even though it made me angry. I didn't want him trying to take care of George, but I wanted him to _want_ to.

George and I sat together in the back seat for the drive back to Berkeley, and this time it was me squeezing her hand too hard. She kept her head down and didn't say a word all the way home.

**********

When we were fifteen a letter came from yet another research organization. It was addressed to our parents, but George took one look and opened it. She read it and shredded it without hesitation. In the past year there'd been at least five other letters like that, and she'd already participated in three studies and signed over a bunch of her medical info to one other group.

When the shredder stopped churning and the request was reduced to confetti, George hugged herself like she was cold. I stepped up behind her and she leaned back against me, head on my shoulder. At that range I could see her shut her eyes through the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

"I know the info they get from me helps with the research," she said, half to me and half to herself. "I know my own chances of getting helped go up every time I play along. But I can't be a lab rat for my whole life."

She sounded so tired. For probably the hundredth time that week, and the ten thousandth time that year, and the millionth time in our lives, I didn't turn her around and kiss her mouth. I kissed the top of her head instead, something I'd only recently gotten tall enough to do. A wordless sound of frustration and unhappiness escaped her, quiet enough that I could pretend not to hear it at all.

Too much of how I acted with her was a pretense these days--every kiss I didn't give her, every conversation where I didn't come out and tell her how I felt, instead of silently trusting that she knew--and I hated that more than I could ever have expressed, even if there'd been anyone to talk to about it.

"I know," I said. Just two words to tell her I'd heard.

I put my arms around her and held her until we heard Mom's van pulling into the driveway, and we broke apart without saying anything else. We didn't mention the letter again.

The next time a letter came, George squared her shoulders and kept her head up while she handed it to Dad with the rest of the mail.

**********

The experiments and treatment trials were fewer and further between the older we got. We had classes at the university and at night school; we had articles to write and zombies to bother. Then we had bigger and bigger stories to cover, and had to market ourselves at the same time. One day that got upgraded to having a presidential campaign to follow and a news site to run, and we had so much work that we barely had time to eat, never mind time to contribute to the furthering of human understanding of anything but politics.

And then we didn't have anything, because George was dead.

The next time she opened her eyes, there was no reservoir condition for anyone to study, because she was in a brand-new body that had never come into contact with live-state Kellis-Amberlee and negotiated that dysfunctional truce. Medically speaking, she was completely normal for the first time since she was a baby.

Scientifically speaking, she was an object of more interest than she ever had been before: the first known human clone whose brain had been programmed successfully with the mind of the original--or close enough for their purposes. After she broadcast her identity to the world, you could tell which of the medical people who came near her were researchers. They were the ones who practically creamed themselves when they saw her in the flesh for the first time, who drooled over the idea of taking her apart to see how she ticked.

That would've been bad enough metaphorically, but looking at them, I was pretty sure some of them were itching to do it literally. I've always been protective of George, but right then I honestly didn't trust myself to stop if I started punching someone for even looking at her threateningly. If I ever need to kill someone to protect her, I will, but that's not the same as the idea of coming out of a blind rage and discovering I've beaten someone to death.

When she was finally approached by a group of medical scientists that Dr. Kimberley vouched for, George reluctantly agreed that they could run some tests on her. They wanted info; we wanted to make sure there weren't any nasty CDC surprises left in her system, or any conditions that could hurt her down the road.

We could agree, but we couldn't make ourselves like it. George literally gritted her teeth when we called them to arrange a meeting to discuss what they wanted to do, in the name of getting it over with while she could still force herself to go through with it.

"The doctors can come tomorrow," said the intern who was apparently responsible for the whole group's schedule.

I looked at George, at how tense and distressed she was, and broke into the conversation. "If they want this to happen, they can send someone today."

\----------

Two doctors turned up that afternoon, both women; I wondered if that was deliberate, to try to keep George comfortable--or compliant, more likely. While she'd been in the CDC's tender care, she saw hardly any other women but Dr. Kimberley and some members of _her_ staff, which had struck George as unusual enough that she mentioned it to me later.

We made a strange-looking little group in the hotel lobby: the two doctors, who introduced themselves as Drs. Mosley and O'Leary, me and George, and two of the security guards from the group Steve had handpicked to keep George safe. Dr. Mosley, the older of the doctors, looked puzzled when none of the rest of us made a move to take the conversation elsewhere. "Shall we go sit somewhere and talk?"

"No." George didn't budge from where she was standing with her back to a wall, with me beside her. Our guardian shadows had looked amused when they first saw us checking our exits. They stopped finding it cute that the little reporters were acting like they knew what they were doing when we placed ourselves in the single most defensible spot in the expansive space. "Just give me the information, please."

They'd brought a list and descriptions of the tests they and their colleagues wanted to run, and didn't argue when she asked to just read through it instead of having them try to tell her about it. They handed over a folder full of paper, like it was still the twentieth century.

By the time she finished reading, George was _pale_ , her hands and jaw clenching while she swallowed convulsively. That and the sweat at her temples broadcast that she was trying her damnedest not to puke. It used to be that she could stay so calm outwardly that no one would dream she was uncomfortable unless they had her hooked up to machines; she was still holding it together now, but there was no way the people around us weren't noticing she was upset, even if they had no clue how badly.

I moved so I was standing behind her, ostensibly reading over her shoulder, but while I was at it I reached around and grabbed hold of her left hand. It was balled up tight, so I began rubbing gently at it to make her at least loosen her fist.

The more I read, the more obvious it was why she was freaking out. The suggested list of tests didn't add up to a general physical exam. Instead, it held every medical test I could _think_ of that wasn't strictly for guys. If she agreed to the list wholesale, everyone from MRI techs to ob/gyns would have their hands and equipment on her. It was enough to make _me_ queasy.

"I won't sign any consent forms without a chance to read through them," George said. "I would like a test-by-test breakdown of what on this list is something you all genuinely believe I should have done for my own health and what's only here because you know you probably won't ever get your hands on another human clone. And I'm going to consult a third party on the accuracy of your breakdown, so I'd recommend being honest."

They looked uncomfortable, but after some shuffling of feet and papers, Dr. O'Leary, who looked about our age, said, "That can be arranged by this evening. Is there anything else?"

"Yes," George said, flat and empty. "You'll authorize my brother--" She tilted her head back towards me in an awkward nod. "--to be with me anywhere _we_ choose, short of an MRI tube."

"Ms. Mason--" Dr. O'Leary began, cheeks reddening a bit with annoyance. She had hair as dark as George's, but it had to be dyed; her skin looked practically translucent next to it, making her freckles and flushed skin stand out in a way that screamed "natural redhead".

"Non-negotiable." George cut her off, swift and sharp as a guillotine. "Shaun is free to come with me. I want that in writing. Without it, none of this happens."

"Is there anything else?" Dr. Mosley, a petite woman with a Boston accent and unusually long hair braided into swirls of cornrows, had a better bedside manner, even if the length of her hair did make me think she probably didn't leave secured areas very often. She sounded almost soothing, like she reassured illegal human clones all the time. It probably sounded entirely genuine to people who weren't trained to put on professional voices, but to my ear it rang false, and I knew it did to George too.

"Yeah," I said, mentally running through everything I'd seen George specifically react badly to. "No lab coats."

They exchanged flummoxed looks. "Excuse me?" Dr. O'Leary said.

"That was three one-syllable words." I was in no mood to play nice. "No. Lab. Coats."

"And if I agree, I want it done tomorrow." This time neither of them challenged George's statement. "We'll contact you to confirm, and you'll give the location info to our security detail."

\----------

That was that. George spent half the night poring over the information she'd been sent with me and Dr. Kimberley, who seemed genuinely okay with losing some sleep in order to spend hours in an online chat session to help George assess the info. Finally, George made her choices and put things in motion. All the tests looked legit, which was good; neither of us were in the mood for surprises. We managed to get to bed by two A.M., and she even seemed to get some sleep.

We still got a surprise: when we opened the door to our hotel suite at seven A.M., ready to leave, we found Steve waiting for us. He gave us a serious nod when we stopped in our tracks. "Georgia. Shaun."

George stayed in the doorway while I stepped over and clapped him on the arm. "Hey, Steve-o!" I said. "We weren't expecting you."

"President Ryman gave me the day off," he replied. "Thought maybe you'd do better with a familiar face today, Georgia."

She was still for another moment, just looking at him, and then she nodded slowly. "Thanks, Steve. I appreciate that."

In a gruffer tone, responding to her wariness as much as her gratitude, he said, "Well, we'd better get a move on."

None of us said much on the trip over to the lab facilities, since the unfamiliar guards were following Steve's lead. It wasn't until we arrived and were getting out in the secured parking garage that he spoke directly to George again. "The president didn't send me to spy on you, Georgia. Don't you worry about that."

"Does that mean Rick did?" It was a weak attempt at a joke, but the fact that she tried got a hint of a smile out of him--a good sign that it really _was_ his day off.

Our escort, a bubbly woman whose ID was supplemented by a name tag that announced "HI! I'M ANGIE!", met us and brought us inside. I glanced at the walls, doing my automatic check of vantage points, acoustics, and exits, plus the new critical element: the color of the space we were in. The hallways were pale blue. Good--the last thing George needed was to get her new phobia of white-walled spaces triggered, no matter how hard she'd worked to brace herself.

"How's she holding up?" Steve murmured while we waited, his lips barely moving.

I shot him a sidelong look. "In general or right now?"

"In general. I read some of the files on what happened to her, so I'd guess she's doing badly right now."

"She's hanging in there," I said, and then we were out of time to talk. Dr. Mosley was approaching--sans lab coat--and things were about to get underway.

Before taking us to the first testing room, Dr. Mosley offered George anti-anxiety meds. I guess Steve wasn't the only one who'd gone over what files were available for her respective level of security clearance, because she looked sincerely taken aback when George refused. Even I was startled.

"Are you sure?" I asked quietly, when Dr. Mosley had turned away. "I'll be here."

"I tried to refuse tests once," George said, not needing to specify when or where, "and they gassed me and did it while I was unconscious. I want to be alert."

 _Fuck._ I almost gagged on my own anger, but said only, "Got it."

\----------

I've been proud of George for our entire lives. I may never have been prouder of her than when we walked out of there fourteen hours later, but that pride was colored by helpless fury with no outlet. I'd never seen her that brave before because I'd never seen her that scared, and the fact that no one had seemed to pick up on the fact that she was terrified rather than just uncomfortably anxious only made it that much more impressive and sickening.

I'd been with her the whole time, including when they did tests that made the staff look so askance at her for wanting me there that it revolted me. Sure, George and I don't have a remotely typical sibling relationship--believe me, I get that, and I get that most women wouldn't want their brothers anywhere in the vicinity when tests like that were going on. On the other hand, most women haven't been traumatized in the way George had been, and I'm pretty sure most people in general don't have someone they trust the way George trusts me, but apparently that was irrelevant.

Instead, all those medical professionals and scientists who're supposed to be so matter-of-fact about the messiness of human biology acted like I should be shocked and appalled at the mere thought that my sister was in possession of a human reproductive system. It didn't seem to occur to a single one of them that what they were being shocked over was George wanting me with her while they performed the most physically invasive tests of the whole day.

None of them came right out and _said_ I shouldn't be there, so we didn't have to say anything either. We just met their discomfited looks with challenging glares, and I made it obvious that I wasn't scrutinizing what they were doing, and they sucked it up because they had no choice. Maybe it was even a good thing, ultimately: George hates strangers so much as brushing up against her, and she probably would've been even more distressed if she hadn't been able to focus on how irritating their attitude was.

That had been four hours in. The schedule for the next ten hours had been relentless, and despite wanting to be alert for it all, after a while George let herself zone out a tiny bit when they didn't need her to communicate, and I kept watch.

Back at our hotel we went directly to our room, stopping at the door to say goodbye to Steve. He didn't try to make any kind of small talk. He just accepted our thanks, gave instructions to the guards who'd be at our door for the next eight hours, and headed out.

Inside and finally alone, we set the lights to UV--which George was halfheartedly trying to stop doing, because she didn't want to rely on it, but she needed all the comfort she could get--and she went straight into the shower, shedding clothes as she crossed the room. "I'm right here if you need anything," I said before she closed the door, and she nodded.

"I know," was her only answer.

She was in there for a solid hour before the water turned off. Our hotel suite was soundproof--the security goons outside our door couldn't hear in unless we authorized it--but the walls between the bathroom and the bedroom weren't. I spent that hour listening to the choked sounds of her struggling not to cry, getting it under control, and choking back another sob, over and over.

When the water stopped, I ground the heels of my hands against my eyes and gave her a few more minutes before calling her name. "George?"

Through a closed door and her own distress, she knew what I was asking. "Please," she said, just loud enough for me to hear her.

I let myself in and sat beside her on the edge of the tub, where she was huddled in a plushy bathrobe. I pulled her against me, and neither of us said a word. We just sat there, holding each other.

I cried first--only a little, and because I was letting myself. George had said she cried hard the very first time, when the asshole doctor who did most of the hands-on emotional abuse tried to make her think I was dead, but every single time since then, once she’d figured out the warning signs, she'd fought it. I know how to let the tears come; God knows I've had enough practice. She didn't.

At first she just reached up and touched my cheek without lifting her head, letting my tears trickle over her fingers. I didn't tell her it was okay; I didn't tell her anything. I just held on, rocking her a little, and kept my mouth shut until I felt her tensing up, trying to brute-force her way back to fragile functionality.

"It's just me," I said then, as gently as I could. "I'm right here. I love you, and I've got you, okay? It's just us. Just you and me."

I held her like that until something gave way inside her, something too deep down for all that strength I love so much to have any kind of sway. It was like a landslide--once those first stones break loose, all you can do is watch things run their course.

Safely alone with me, protected by armed guards standing obliviously beyond the soundproofed walls, George cried herself sick in my arms for the first time in our lives.

Afterwards, after she'd washed her face and downed some water, I said, "You know you don't ever have to do that again, right? All they're doing is trying to mine info on clones out of you. It's not like when they were trying to fix your eyes and could tell you it was for your own good in the long run."

She nodded wearily, taking the chair opposite mine in the suite's little dining nook. "I know."

"I mean, if either of us needs to be a lab rat now, it's me," I added, trying to lighten her mood.

George found a smile for me, but her eyes were somber. "Are we going to tell Dr. Abbey why you're immune?"

"I think we have to. Right before we bail? She'll keep it under wraps if she can. I think."

"Before we bail," she agreed.

She didn't budge while I called room service for a late supper--she'd been too stressed in the lab environment to even think about eating--and when food arrived she ate it slowly, each bite an effort. At least exhaustion and strain didn't keep her from enjoying it, and her appetite was better than I'd feared. I wasn't even trying to imagine what her relationship with food was likely to be if-- _when_ \--we got some stability in our lives. She'd always appreciated good food before, but in a distracted sort of way; she seemed more conscious of it now, which was no surprise given her description of the CDC's hospitality.

We ate mostly in silence, and there was real amusement in the smile she gave me when she discovered I'd ordered a wedge of fudge for her. She was out of energy, and eating it all would have taken longer than she was up for, but the density and richness of it meant she could take one bite and let it dissolve gradually in her mouth, flooding her senses.

"Thanks," she said, carefully wrapping the rest of it up and setting it aside.

I came around the table to her and kissed her lightly, sharing the last of the taste, and then picked her up. I even managed not to cringe at how slight she still was. "You're welcome."

When we were both settled in bed, George spoke into the darkness, just loudly enough to be heard over the white noise generator. "I'm done with doctors."

"Okay," I said, because what the hell _else_ could I say? She'd been pretty clear about her position on "what ifs", and I knew if I started with something like "What if you break an arm?" it would go downhill fast, even if I managed to keep the worst of it in my head and not say "What if you die again?"

 _It's almost like she doesn't even want to stay alive,_ the echo of her voice murmured in my skull.

I didn't respond out loud, but I must have stiffened. George reached for my hand in the dark, fumbling for it the way I always had when reaching for hers--and _that_ was still gonna take some getting used to, since she'd always been able to see before--and squeezed when she found it. She didn't say anything.

 _You're really going to just vanish off the face of the earth with someone who doesn't even love you enough to keep an eye on her health?_ There was venom in her voice that would've given Mom a run for her money on a bad day.

 _"Stop it."_ I tried to say it silently, but I'd never gotten the hang of that, even at my worst. It came out as a snarl, and I clutched George's hand harder, praying she'd understand the anger wasn't for her. "Sorry. It's just my crazy acting up."

"I figured." She came closer, propping herself up on an arm and leaning in over me so I could center myself around her living warmth.

I breathed her in gratefully, but made myself say, "You're beat, George. You don't have to--"

"Oh, hush." Her mildly scolding tone was so familiar, so _George_ , that I was smiling as she lay down again, right against me. "This isn't tiring. I can just sleep like this."

 _Since when?_ I didn't say. I needed her physical presence too badly.

"And I didn't mean it literally," she added. "About doctors. If I really need to see someone, I will, okay? So don't worry about that. Let's sleep." She kissed my forehead, awkward with drowsiness. I wrapped an arm around her waist and let myself fall into what turned out to be a blessedly dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Tori Amos' "Girl".


End file.
